


You Pulled the Blood to My Blue Lips

by shadowsapiens



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsapiens/pseuds/shadowsapiens
Summary: Sirius is still in bed when James jumps him. He knows it’s James because nobody else would dare bother him sleeping, and because the jerk yells, “Wake up, mate, we’re going to Hogsmeade!”rightin his ear.
Relationships: Sirius Black/James Potter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94
Collections: Mistletoe Exchange 2020





	You Pulled the Blood to My Blue Lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tossedwaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tossedwaves/gifts).



> Happy Mistletoe! <3

It’s a beautiful, snowy Saturday, the kind of Saturday you want to spend bundled up away from the world, and Sirius is still in bed when James jumps him. He knows it’s James because nobody else would dare bother him sleeping, and because the jerk yells, “Wake up, mate, we’re going to Hogsmeade!” _right_ in his ear. 

Well. And because he’d know James Potter anywhere. 

“Fuck off,” Sirius groans, rolling tighter in his blankets.

This doesn’t deter James, who collapses on him. Warm. Heavy. Inescapable. There’s a tug of war, mad scrambling that ends with James papered against his back, warm and alive, his lips against Sirius’s ear, murmuring: “Make me.” 

Sirius is _wide_ awake now, hyperaware of James’s every breath and movement. The press of their bodies together, the cold spot of James’s spectacles touching his temple. He is, unfortunately, awake enough to know that they cannot stay like this or he won’t be liable for whatever friendship-ruining atrocity he commits. He elbows James off him with another curse. 

James staggers off his bed, laughing. “No really,” he says, yanking Sirius’s bed curtains all the way open, so the white winter light pours in. “Front gate, twenty minutes, or you’ll regret it.” 

Then James is gone, and the room is quiet. Sirius buries his face in his pillow until he can barely breathe, and it would be so easy to curl up and fall asleep again. He’s been so fucking tired lately. There’s a pervasive gloom in the air that’s hard to walk through. Hard to breathe. He got a letter from his mother last week, the first in years. He hasn’t read it, but even burning it seems like so much work. Almost as much work as acting like normal, when he’s with the others. Because the last thing he fucking wants is sympathy. 

It’s easier to be tired. It’s easier to sleep. 

He gets up anyway. James is worth waking up for.

*

James is right where he said he’d be at the front gate. His breath billows out like dragon steam, and he’s wearing his usual mismatch of Quidditch gear and winter robes. Remus once said he looks ridiculous in it. Sirius never says anything. He just thinks the arm guards are stupidly hot.

He slings his arm around James’s shoulder. “Are the others coming?”

“They’re busy.” James grins. “And I didn’t invite them.” 

Sirius laughs. “Does that make me the lucky one or the unlucky one?” 

“Yes,” James says, and starts walking. His shoulder slips regrettably from under Sirius’s arm. “Come on, big plans today.”

A thin layer of snow crunches under their feet. Cold and fragile, the way Sirius’s breath and bones feel right now, and he hates it. He wants to be sharp, dangerous, like shards of ice. 

They’re not the only students walking towards Hogsmeade. A flash of green and silver catches his eye across the grounds—Mulciber, Severus, a few other Slytherins he doesn’t recognize but probably hates. None of them Regulus, so he doesn’t even have to feel bad if they—

He leans into James’s ear. “Oy, want to fuck with Snivellus and friends?”

James slows down. Looks Sirius in the eye for just a moment. “Do you?” he asks, like a challenge.

James will go along if Sirius wants it. He always does, just like Sirius always does the same for him. But the way he asks, it’s like he can see right through Sirius, that none of the jitters and frost in his bones is about those assholes in green. It’s about the shit back home. The shit he can’t fuck with, can’t fix. 

“Nah,” he says. “They’re not worth it.” 

He doesn’t do this whole self-restraint thing often, but it’s worth it for the way James grins at him.

*

James doesn’t lead him to Zonko’s or the Three Broomsticks or the Hog’s Head. He doesn’t stop to chat with the fellow students who call out to them; he waves and grins, but continues his unerring path through the streets. They pass busy little shops and quiet little houses, then fewer houses, then old spindly trees, stretching like skeleton arms into the winter sky.

They stop at a tiny little pond they’ve been to before. In early fall and late spring, and presumably all through the summer, it’s a frequent haunt of pixies and mokes. Now, it’s stark white and quiet, the pond iced over and the surrounding trees powdered with snow. 

James kicks the snow off a fallen log and sits down. Sirius stands next to him, looking down at the whorl of his hair, the worn seams of his arm guards. The dusting of snow on his shoulders. 

“Why’re we out here, James?” 

James tips his head back. Doesn’t look at Sirius, just the gray-blue sky above and the outstretched, empty branches. “I just wanted to get out for a while. Not think about all the assholes in there.” His fingers curl against his knees. “I needed some space.” 

What he means is, you needed some space. You need to get out for a while. You need to stop thinking. 

Sirius slumps next to James on the log. It’s cold out here, and the damp will soak through their robes before long, but Sirius feels warmer than he did curled up in bed. Just the press of James’s thigh and arm against his. The sound of his breath. 

After a while of watching the black and white quiet around them, James shifts in his seat. “You don’t have to,” he says slowly, like it’s something fragile, “but you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

His first instinct is to joke. Deflect. Give James shit for getting sappy on him. He breathes in, breathes out. Deliberately, painfully peels away the jokes and says something true instead: “You’re my favorite, Jamie.”

He’s said that too often. James just laughs and says, “You’re my favorite too.” 

“Fuck off, I mean it.” And James says he can talk about anything, but he doesn’t have the words for this. The way he feels about James is too ridiculously all-encompassing, too enormously consuming. He swears again and grabs James by the front of his robes. “I mean it,” he says, and kisses him. 

The angle’s awkward, and James’s nose bumps against his. It’s the worst and scariest kiss of Sirius’s life. Then James moves, slides his hand through Sirius’s hair, kisses back—and it’s fucking perfect. 

They fall back in the snow and forget everything else.


End file.
